"Sounds all right,” Alice said.
"Well, he's not very likable, but he let me go so I could settle Zath's hash. He did warn me about the prophecy that said the Liberator would be betrayed by his friends and thrown among the legions of death. That's exactly what happened. There's a traitor in the Service, and I know who it is, and I absolutely must get the word back to Olympus."
Alice spoke from a long way away. “But you did find the Service in the end?"
"I found the Service right away, the next day. But I was too late. Zath got to their agent before I did. I saw him being burned alive by—"
"Excuse me,” Smedley said. “Frightfully sorry and all that, but I think I'm going to faint."
12
THE PRIESTS WERE STILL HARANGUING THE CROWD.
As subtly as drifting snow, the young men of Sonalby closed in around the stranger in their midst. Just as unobtrusively, women, children, and older men left his vicinity, leaving Edward surrounded by youths. They all seemed intent on the funeral pyre, but he knew better than to try to escape.
Most of them leaned on spears, and some had shields also. Every one had a wooden club dangling at his side; none wore more than a leather loincloth. Their hair and beards were trimmed short, so they could not be caught hold of in battle, and they all had painted faces. They all had scars on their ribs, too regular to be accidental—some old and healed, others still raw and oozing.
The Carpenter house collapsed into ashes, and there were no more heretics to burn. The priests departed, and the mob began to disperse.
The young men turned to the next item of business, the stranger in town. They opened up into a circle around him and proceeded to discuss him as if he were a piece of furniture. He was footsore and thirsty and melting in the heat. The debate seemed likely to go on for the rest of the day. It might eventually conclude with a decision to put him to death or perform something less fatal but more unpleasant.
There were two factions involved, one slightly younger than the other. The younger group were clean shaven or just beardless, and their faces were painted in a complex design, mainly yellow, with very minor amounts of blue, white, red, and green. The older group had beards and another pattern, in which blue predominated, with lesser amounts of the other colors and an ominous addition of black.
Had Edward been a native-born Englishman, he would probably have demanded at that point to be taken before the village headman, and that would have been a very serious error. Fortunately, he had been raised among the Embu of Kenya, so he had some idea of what he was dealing with, although he could not make out a word of the jabbering talk.
Finally heads began to nod; some sort of agreement had been reached. One of the blue-painted older ones said in heavily accented Joalian, “Do you wear merit marks?” He tapped the scars on his ribs.
Sussian smocks left arms bare, but concealed chests. “It is not the custom of my people."
The debate resumed, as incomprehensibly as before.
Then the same man asked a second question. “How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"How long since you shaved your face?"
Edward rubbed his stubble. “Two days ago."
There were grunts, then. And more jabber. At last the younger, yellowfaced youths just melted away. They had conceded that the beardless stranger belonged to the other group.
He belonged to them outright. He was fairly certain that he was theirs to do with as they pleased. There would be no headman, no council of elders to whom he could appeal. A young male stranger in town was a matter for the young warriors.
There must have been fifty of them around him now. By and large they were too swarthy to be a typical crowd in England, but they would not have been out of place in Southern Europe. They varied from lithe to beefy, from short to tall, although few were six-footers like himself. They were all about his own age. Now they were debating who should interrogate the prisoner, with much pointing. Eventually one of the tall ones was selected; he stepped forward and the rest fell silent.
"Foreigner, what is your name?"
Edward had already given that matter considerable thought. He had decided to stick with D'ward, having learned that it was not uncommon, the name of some minor god or other—who might be an interesting stranger to meet sometime, possibly a fellow countryman. To use an alias would be to concede to himself that he was frightened of the Chamber. D'ward he would remain, but in the Vales a man's name included his trade. He could think of only one skill he possessed that might be of any value at all in Sonalby.
"I am D'ward Spearthrower,” he said.
It was an insane gamble. He would have to prove himself in the eyes of men who had been practicing all their lives, and he had no idea of the technique required for their weapons. But he had always had a knack for throwing things. He had set a school record with the javelin.
Now he had won the interest of his age group. They marched him back out of town in very short order, to the practice field he had seen on the way in. An audience of women and the younger youths watched curiously from the sidelines.
He would need to work a miracle. He had done so once, after picking up mana by playing holy man on a node. Later he had absorbed some from the audience in the theater, but that had been trivial and he must have used it up in the exertions of the last two days. Now he was so tired he doubted he could summon up any charisma at all.
A couple of warriors offered him a choice of spears. They were heavier than he had expected, with leaf-shaped metal blades. He selected one of medium length and weight and hefted it a few times. At that point someone thrust one of the round shields at him, a massively heavy circle of wood and thick leather. He was supposed to hold that while throwing this! His confidence plummeted.
"This weight is not familiar to me,” he announced brashly. “I shall try for distance first.” After that he might attempt to hit a moderate size barn at close quarters. He nudged the tall man with the edge of his shield. “Give me a mark.” He could watch how it was done.
He expected the tall man to run, but he barely moved. He just leaned back, took one long pace with his left foot, and hurled. The spear flashed in the sky and dropped into the scrubby grass about a hundred miles down range.
Merciful heavens! Wasn't that out of bounds?
"Good throw!” Edward said. He could sense that it was a good throw from the reactions around them. He steadied himself for the roll of the dice, braced his left arm to support that pestilential shield.... He threw.
His spear fell well short of the other, but he heard no sniggers. He thought he sensed some grudging approval. He snarled angrily.
"Let me try again, with a longer pole!"
He was given a longer spear. This time he did better, and the audience was moderately pleased.
"Good throw!” said the tall man. “I am Prat'han Potter.” He gripped Edward's left shoulder and squeezed. Edward did the same for him.
Then the fifty or so others went through the same procedure, each announcing his name in perfectly understandable Joalian, although the accent was harsh. Their trades were not what he had expected—tanner, shoemaker, tentmaker, yes, but also wheelwright, silversmith, printer, musician, and many others.
Now Edward must show that he could hit a target, and he discovered just how seriously young Nagians took their spear-throwing. One of them stalked forward about thirty paces, then turned and waited. His shield covered him from his shoulders to halfway down his thighs, but that still left far too much of him exposed. The blades were not honed to battle sharpness, but they could still maim.